Entries in Toilet
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The economy does not actually exist. I know what you might be thinking now. "Hey, how deep of a hit did you just take from your opium bong? You godless hippie." The short answer is: not that deep. The long answer is: An economy is just an agreed upon system of values and trade rules. It is no more set in stone than any other idea, and can be re-arranged or fundamentally revised any time we feel like it.

I know it seems as if economic systems, such as our pseudo-capitalist one, are quite real. As real as the buildings that house all of the institutions that prop up this concept. But it really isn't. It's "simply" a very elaborate system we have concocted in order to keep people producing goods and services that in the end benefit most of us. Motivated by greed. Punished by hunger. I will leave any further moral values and my own Utopian hopes out of it.

If this current model of incentives and punishment isn't getting the job done let's change it. Fine tune it to work better. Improve the social safety net for workers. Tax the rich bankers a little higher. Make sure stock trading is better regulated. Even out the peaks and valleys. We also have the short term option: Keep on buying stuff, you dumb shits.

A recession happens when people think a recession will happen. They stop buying and start saving. Industrialists stop producing the things that aren't being bought anymore. The same people who stopped buying get fired and continue not buying (now for a different reason, lack of funds) and the downward spiral worsens. Do you want to keep your job? You want your friends to keep their jobs? Stop stuffing your mattress full of imaginary wealth printed on paper and purchase things that might be useful. Either sneakers with lights in the heals or a shotgun for fending off the mutants when this economic crisis hits apocalyptic proportions.

You think I am over-simplifying a very complex issue? Yes, I might be. Bare in mind though that economist's seemingly elaborate hypotheses are not any more accurate. If these Oracles of Wall Street and Captains of Industry had any clue what pattern the market follows (if any) they'd be able to fix it. Instead they're just throwing anything they can think of at the problem and seeing what sticks. So far, nothing is.

A system no-one understands isn't a system, it's chaos. So kick back, grab a beer you've just brewed in your own toilet and enjoy watching as these granite monoliths of capitalism crumble. Like that pension you had saved away. It's much more fun watching something come crashing down. At least now you are not alone, standing in the rubble.

She all but threw it out there. Without any hint or warning leading up to it. She had a habit of doing that. No hint. Nothing to brace you or get you into the mood of the topic of this little spiel. Plop; and there it was on the floor.

- "Uhuh."

He muttered back and tried to sound uninterested. Taking a swill from his beer while fumbling to get the cellphone out of his pocket with the other hand. Thinking of ways to get out of this situation and into a bar. A sensible plan for getting slaughtered was needed.

- "I must have cum like a dozen times last night." She continued.

Details. Details flying at him like sand into his eyes. Unasked for and annoying when you can't help yourself from looking and just have to keep staring into the spray.

- "Alrighty then. Stupendous. Good for you and hooray."

It's not really a conversation when one of the parties is constantly trying to shut it down. He realized this of course and hoped she would too. Although that would assume she had any real intention of this being an actual conversation and not just another one-sided monologue piece about her amazing lovelife, sexlife and fucking-ignoring-him-life. Alas, it was so.

She swiveled around on the chair and gazed up into the ceiling, leaning back so far that her hair almost touched the floor behind her. Occasionally swirling and sipping her drink as she twirled. The liquid inside the glass, some sort of pink mojito-half breed, sloshed dangerously close to the edge of its container as she picked up speed. It looked like the stuff coming off of that pink puck in the urinal, flushing down into the drain.

He was at this point furiously pushing the buttons of the phone with his thumb in an attempt to construct a text message that could save him from this predicament. Accidentally mashing several letters at once in his haste, misspelling as he went. Growing more annoyed with each mistake.

- "Why the hell are the buttons so God damn small? It's like this thing was designed to be operated with a midget's toes." He muttered to himself as he finally got the last digit right and pressed 'send'.

He was going to need a much stronger drink than this if he was to survive the wait. Something that could dull his mind sufficiently. In order to desensitize him from the apparent set topic of the evening. He strode over to the little bar area in the corner of the living room and plonked down his bottle on the wooden counter. The force was enough to stir up the carbonation in the beer and cause it to fizz slightly. Rum would do the job. After all: 'Time flies when you're having rum.'.

Downing the first round in one go he hardly had time to taste it. Pity, it was a good brand. Once it hit his stomach it gave him that old familiar feeling. A warm almost burning sensation started to emanate from his gut. Spreading into his chest, arms and legs. When it finally hit his head it was like superglue spreading, drying and hardening inside of his brain. An epoxy cauterizing every neural cluster and the thoughts that went with them. Back to being an idiot, a safe feeling.

A beep and a rattle in his pocket. Paige had responded to his text.

"im working tonight, sorry baby :("

- "His cock was huge!" she slurred as she leaned back just far enough on the chair to tip backwards and do an unwilling and flailing somersault.

A few of my neighbours are music students. Nothing wrong with that, they're usually pretty laid back people. Sometimes however they make me wish I was deaf. It's not that they're untalented and play their instruments poorly, in fact I consider some of them to be quite skilled. I do however find that they choose rather inappropriate moments to enrich my daily life with their art.
My most recent encounter with their musical musings came while on the toilet. I don't want to hear a beautiful flute solo coming through the air vent when I'm taking a shit. This is not supposed to be a delightful moment for me. My asshole is being stretched out. This is not the time to get whimsical. I half expect an enchanting little pixie to come frolicking into the bathroom, tossing around pixie dust and inviting me to come along to his magical kingdom. As soon as I've wiped. Hey, I'm a polite guy. Always wanting to put my best foot forward.

This is the end part of the page. There's really nothing here. Every time you reach this part you've gone too far. Scroll back up. Or imagine there's a beautiful unicorn here, and tell a friend about it.